


Epicene

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Community: au_bingo, Forgery, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just so you know," said Arthur, tugging the needle out of his vein, "that was ... I'm not gay." Short, sharp, to the point. Best to avoid complications.</p><p>"What?" Eames sounded surprised. "Oh. No, me neither."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epicene

"Just so you know," said Arthur, tugging the needle out of his vein, "that was ... I'm not gay." Short, sharp, to the point. Best to avoid complications.

"What?" Eames sounded surprised. "Oh. No, me neither."

Arthur was suspicious. (That'd been a very _enthusiastic_ kiss from someone who didn't find him sexually attractive. He, at least, had had the excuse of kissing a woman; easy to forget it was Eames while he'd kept his eyes open, and he'd kept them open through everything, the kissing and the making-out and ... everything.)

(Okay, so he'd woken up hard. It was no more significant than waking up with a pounding heart after dying in a dream.)

"Great," said Arthur. "Wanna get dinner?"

* * *

Except it wasn't that -- it was _never_ that easy with Eames. It happened again. This time Eames was a redhead and Arthur didn't like redheads (mostly because of a particular redhead he'd liked far too much). Still, it wasn't as though he'd never made out with one of Eames' forges before, and they had an hour to kill before the mark came back.

Then there was the Fischer job, with a whole fucking _week_ to kill before they could wake. At least Fischer's projections had melted into the dream, satisfied now that Cobb's team were no threat. Eames mostly kept on being Browning: it made more sense to Fischer that way. Every evening, though, he'd slip into someone more comfortable -- his own description, though Arthur couldn't believe it was easier to forge a woman than a man -- and Arthur'd find himself cornered, kissed, caressed.

And yeah, sometimes (just before she came) the blonde's voice would sink to a disturbingly deep register, and her eyes would be suddenly steel-blue instead of hazel. But it was still, very definitely, a woman that Arthur was fucking. So that was okay.

* * *

After the Fischer job, whenever they worked together and had time to spare, Eames'd come up with another slinky forge, and Arthur'd let himself be persuaded. He'd pretty much given up on dating in the waking world -- too busy, too necessarily secretive, too itinerant. This thing with Eames, though, was easy. And Eames never used the same forge twice, so it felt nothing like a relationship: more like a series of random hookups, except that they could lie there afterwards and pick up the conversation where they'd left off last time.

It seemed unfair that Eames did all the work and got the same old Arthur every time, though.

It wasn't that Arthur _couldn't_ forge: he'd been trained, same as most of the people he'd worked with regularly, and he had the basics down pat. What he wasn't good at was maintaining the deception in a combat situation. ("Stop being so bloody sure of yourself!" Eames'd yelled at him once, after an especially disastrous reversion. "Fuck off," Arthur'd retorted. "Can't help it if I'm a better fighter than that redneck you made me fake.")

But if he didn't need to fight, if he only needed to _fuck_ ...

Maybe he should've felt more ashamed of the pulse of lust that went through him at the thought of him and Eames, both female, both nude, in the soft light of that plush room that Arthur liked, touching and kissing and ...

Yeah.

* * *

Arthur didn't get much time alone in dreams to practice while Eames was around, but then Eames wasn't always in the same city -- hell, the same _country_ \-- as him. They were both in demand after the Fischer job, despite trying to keep the rumours unconfirmed: and while Eames was off in Kyoto extracting a five-year business plan from one of Saito's old rivals, Arthur was going under every day. By the end of the week he'd created -- okay, a feminine version of himself, what a sister might've looked like. Dark hair worn long enough to curl; the same eyes, the same bone-structure in a softer face. Slim, but with a decent rack -- he had a good idea what Eames liked in a woman -- and nice curves.

"Come and find me," he told Eames on their next job, once they'd mapped out the level and worked on their routes. "I've got a surprise for you."

He'd dreamt up a version of the room he liked best, with its high bed and all the mirrors, and engineered a short-cut that only he'd be able to find: that gave him time to change before Eames found him. Not, it turned out, as much time as he'd have liked: Eames showed up, not bothering to knock, while Arthur was still debating the lipstick question.

"Oh, _Arthur_ ," said Eames, stopping short just inside the door as though he -- she, the blonde again -- had walked into a plate-glass window. "I'm ..."

"Do you like it?" said Arthur, though he was pretty sure the ardency in Eames' throaty female voice was an affirmative.

"Fuck, Arthur," said Eames, and abruptly she was _he_ again, shirtless and inked and already (it was instinct to check) aroused by Arthur's forge.

"I'll take that as a yes," said Arthur. His -- her -- throat was dry, and she swallowed as Eames came closer. There was something seriously weird, almost unnerving, about the intensity of Eames' gaze. Eames had never, as a woman, looked at Arthur with such heat, such want.

Maybe this was how Eames felt, when Arthur --

"Is this all right?" said Eames softly, close enough now to touch though Arthur, unaccountably, wasn't touching. "Are you ..."

Arthur bit his lip, and reached out, and spread his, _her_ hand (smaller and more slender than usual) over Eames' collarbone. "I thought you'd stay as -- no, don't," because Eames was staring over Arthur's shoulder at the mirror, with the abstracted look that Arthur associated with an imminent shift.

"This isn't what you want," said Eames, eyes meeting Arthur's again. "This body. You don't --"

"You'd be surprised," said Arthur archly: then, confession, "I'm surprised."

Eames' slow smile made Arthur want to melt against him. _That_ was unexpected, too.

"Have you ever fucked a man before?"

Arthur snorted. "You know I haven't. I'm not --"

"D'you want to? Do you want to fuck _me_ , Arthur?"

And fuck, yes, that was exactly what Arthur wanted: all of Eames, Eames as Eames, Arthur taking it in a way he'd never craved but _she_ , this body, ached for.

But Eames was drawing back, leaving Arthur hollow and empty and wet. "I think we should --"

"Mr Eames," said Arthur, stepping, swaying, forward. "I'd very much like you to fuck me."

"Arthur --"

Arthur grinned, because Eames wrong-footed, off-balance like this, was a rare and precious thing, and also because it looked very likely that Eames'd do whatever Arthur wanted right now. "C'mon, Eames. Or don't you want --"

Then it was all on: Eames' mouth, bigger than Arthur's, hungry and wide and rapacious. Eames' kiss, Eames' tongue tangling, Eames' hands big and hot on Arthur's skin, sliding beneath the dark red silk robe that Arthur'd deemed appropriate, touching Arthur's nipples (and _fuck_ that was ... that was completely new), pushing the silk aside, exploring and exciting and, with every touch, appreciating the detail of Arthur's forge.

Arthur came the first time from Eames' tongue; after that, her body felt loose and languid and boneless -- the way Arthur was used to feeling after an intensive sparring session and a hot bath -- and the press of Eames' dick inside her was improbably easy, though it made her hum and writhe.

"Not a virgin," murmured Eames against her ear, thrusting slow and steady. The muscles in his back felt amazing under her hands.

"Wouldn't want you to get ideas," said Arthur, pinching his ass.

"Bit late for that," said Eames. His face was red, tightening in a grimace, and Arthur watched him come -- _felt_ him come -- and wondered how long it would take to be tired of this. Of Eames. Of fucking Eames.

-end-


End file.
